Late
by Isolde Necrophilia
Summary: "Human flesh, little girl, tastes good with carrots and sweet rolls," he said, brushing his glove against her crimped tresses. "Cicero will show you."


"Are you. . ." the girl rinsed the skin from her lips with her tongue, swallowed, and continued more coherently, "are you answering my call?"

Cicero's brows knitted together as he relieved himself from a couching position to evaluate the girl before him. He was unsure whether to judge her as a child or as an adult; her head seemed too large for her body, for she had a heavy jaw and a large mouth; there were two swelling mounts where he expected a flat chest, but he couldn't credit their existence to her pudging stomach or puberty. She was three-fourths as tall as he, reaching approximately the bend of his arms, but despite her appearances, she spoke to him quite rationally – not to mention the crimson that stained the rags she wore that were accompanied by blotches of what could have been either horker meat or human flesh.

"_You _were the one who performed the Dark Sacrament?" he spoke with clear distaste.

The child-woman ignored the disappointment clearly addressing her age. "You're late," she scorned. "I've already killed 'im mee-self. Don't expect any payment from me purse."

The Brother's gloves brushed against his sheathed blade. He'd spent weeks traveling across the continent on the insistence of the Listener only to be disciplined by a child-woman? Never mind that the Listener would appoint him to a child-woman's call – oh, how lowly and belittling the Listener thought of him! – but, alas, he _would_ retrieve his payment one way or another.

"I thought you lot worked faster than that," she proceeded. "I didn't want to do it mee-self, but I didn' wan' him touchin' me again. . .and I was so _hungry_."

Although an assassin, Cicero was still capable of emotion; his leathered appendages withdrew from his dagger and he peered closer at the child-woman's clothing. So it wasn't horker meat? Ah, ah, ah! How very interesting.

"And now I feel sick," the lecturing quality of her tone diminished and altered to a moan, "I don't know how to cook. I. . . I think he was rotten."

Cicero hummed. "How old are you?"

"I turn twenty on my birthday."

"How many birthdays away is that?"

". . .eight."

So she was twelve, which would explain the awkward format of her body. The assassin decided to evaluate the situation additionally before he made a fatal decision; he stepped passed her and further into the home lit by a single candle where a very, very dismantled – oh, and smelly! – corpse lay. He did so enjoy the fragrance of a fresh kill, but the flies were beginning to feed from what used to be a grown man, and it was all quite disgusting. Cicero's gaze fluttered across the smeared blood, the forked guts, and back to the child-woman who, pale with sickness, was otherwise unphased.

Had the Night Mother insisted he disembark? Was there something more significant about this contract? Oh, he hoped so – he was quite cognizant of the sneers and teasing that focused on him, a lowly assassin by their standards. Was he being too optimistic? Nay, he couldn't think like that. Twelve years old was too young to be enrolled into the Dark Brotherhood. No law forbids it, but he presumed it to be so. Was she a prodigy? The idea made his stomach twist a little with jealousy, but he ushered it away, and made a decision.

"Human flesh, little girl, tastes good with carrots and sweet rolls," he said, brushing his glove against her crimped tresses. "Cicero will show you."

* * *

**A/N: **Just a bit of an idea I've had for a while; I know this isn't long – about a page and a half on my processor – but after writing it, I do think it might be a nice start to either a chaptered fic or even a series. The "child-woman" is my Dragonborn; obviously this is placed prior to Cicero's madness, long before the Dark Brotherhood storyline. I did have quite a bit of fun trying to imagine how Cicero might have behaved. Even without the jester's influence, I like to think of him as a bit emotional, striving for attention, theatrical, yet soft in the most demented of places. Perhaps you might think of this as a window into his own past? I also like to imagine there was some form of neglect and/or abuse with his own family.

I'm always open for critiques, suggestions, ideas, and, of course, praise and motivation – so do review! I'll give you all the sweet rolls and carrots.

I. N.


End file.
